The Manner of Giving
by Undomiel Regina
Summary: Not even gift-giving is free of the potential for cultural misunderstandings. [Klaus/Taki, pre-canon]


**1. Giving**

Klaus wishes he could write to Claudia, tell her, "Remember that boy I once said I met in an emperor's garden?" But he buried the memory safe in the heavy darknesses in his mind for many years. It has surprised him by unearthing as sweet and beautiful as it had been interred and while he trusts Claudia, he cannot bear to expose it to the others who would surely pick over his words, bruising and tattering the moment in their search for anything of value. So he says nothing until he can offer less precious knowledge, lets Claudia — and consequently those of Hartmann's agents who surely read his mail for observations he has left unspoken and signs of excess partiality — hear only of his strange, foreign roommate and their slow, tentative road to friendship.

But Klaus is not formed for subterfuge and Claudia's questions grow more probing, as do his handlers'. It is a relief to admit the uselessness of further discretion and write asking Claudia to send a gift he may offer Taki for Christmas. That Taki chooses this time to offer his own greetings for her is a surprise, but one that his new carelessness with the truth allows to be unmitigatedly pleasant.

Claudia is utterly silent on the matter, and so it is something of a pleasant shock to Klaus when he returns to their room one day to find she has sent Taki a package herself, as though he were family. It warms Klaus to know she has understood him so well. The gift he asked her to procure sits easily in his pocket. He decides to wait on the giving of it, letting Taki fully enjoy Claudia's present. He does his best to ignore the unworthy part of himself that wants to ensure Taki's focus is entirely his for its giving.

He puts the delay to use as best he can, trying to determine how to offer the gift with as little awkwardness or confusion as possible. Though it happens but rarely, there is always the risk that Taki will misunderstand (or worse, correctly understand) one of Klaus's overtures in a way that pricks his pride. Klaus would rather this were not one of those times, but it feels chancier than most. In the end, he waits until they have an evening at the inn run by an old friend of his father's — and Hartmann's — that is the closest thing to a sanctuary he has in the town, and hands him the package with only a quick "Happy Christmas."

Taki looks at him wide-eyed with no little bemusement, and Klaus gropes for more words. "In my country, at this season we give gifts to celebrate." He carefully avoids mentioning that they are usually only offered to family and sweethearts. Some things are too revealing to say, even for him.

Taki takes the parcel and picks carefully at the twine and brown paper covering it. Klaus had not wanted to remove that without some more proper way to wrap it; as it transpires, he need not have worried, because Claudia knows him well enough to have seen to that, too. He sends her a grateful thought as Taki looks at the second, brightly colored layer of paper and ribbon with a serious face, then opens it just as painstakingly. Klaus is torn between wishing he would hurry and enjoying the careful way he handles it.

When Taki finally removes the wrappings, Klaus sees that Claudia, bless her, has clearly understood exactly what drove him to offer Taki a gift. The box in Taki's hands is not the simple thing he expected, but one he remembers seeing on his mother's dresser in childhood, rich brown wood carved with eagles and wolves. Taki lifts the lid and Klaus finally remembers to stir himself enough to offer an explanation.

"They're candied rose petals. I asked Claudia to send some to give you. We make them ourselves at the rose harvest."

Taki takes a petal solemnly and places it in his mouth. His face bears the same grave expression he has worn other times Klaus has presented him with new things to try, as though he is afraid he will offer offense with carelessness or dislike. This time, though, Klaus is delighted to see a small smile at the sweet taste, and feels all his anxiety dissolve into effervescent relief and pride.

"Thank you. These are delicious," Taki says, and Klaus smiles broadly back in answer.

**2. Receiving**

Klaus does not think further of gifts, other than to feel a small thrill of pleasure every time he sees the box sitting on the table beside Taki's bed. So it takes him utterly by surprise when Taki proffers a package two months later, with a short bow.

"In thanks for your gift," he says. "It is an insignificant token, but I hope you will do me the honor of accepting it."

Klaus looks at the bundle in his hands. It's tied in a cloth in some bafflingly intricate way, and the fabric itself looks much too fine to be used as mere wrapping. He turns it over a few times, seeing how the wrapping works, and then unties the knots. The cloth, when spread open, proves to have a single large emblem in the center, a three-leafed rose in full bloom; he folds it carefully and sets it aside. The box revealed is well-made but marked only in the writing of Taki's country, which he cannot read. Opening it takes his breath away. The cigarette case inside is beautiful, but clearly far too valuable to be a reasonable reciprocation for his simple, homely present, much less "insignificant." The black lacquer on the case is covered in a minutely detailed landscape in gold, and when he opens it, he can see the case is made of silver. Never mind the candied petals, nothing Klaus has ever done for Taki merits this kind of return, which leaves him more than a little uneasy. He does not want to believe he has done something to make Taki think he might be purchased thus.

He looks back up at Taki, who is standing very still before him, and tries for a polite smile of thanks. He can feel it dying on his face.

Taki says, carefully, "It was made by a master artisan whose family my ancestors have patronized for generations," and then, like a confession, "I regret I could not offer the work of my own hands."

Taki, Klaus realizes, is worried he does not like it. It is still too much, a ridiculously luxurious thing too fine to carry habitually if it were not at more risk left behind in their insecure dormitory room; but relieved of the fear that it comes inextricably tangled with obligations he cannot fulfill, Klaus is free to love it. He knows how little Taki likes tobacco, so he must have thought only of Klaus's own preferences in selecting a gift. Klaus smiles properly, and thanks Taki, who relaxes slightly at his warmth.

The next week, he receives a letter from Claudia that mentions a bolt of fine painted silk delivered to her home. Her concern comes through even in the text, and he has to reply in haste, assuring her that Taki meant only to repay her kindness.

Later, Klaus has cause to be glad that he never dared leave the case behind in his room. It is one of the only things he takes away with him when he boards Taki's train.


End file.
